


Three Men in a Bed

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Anal Play, Bloodplay, Cuckolding, Double Penetration, M/M, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Read at Own Risk, Threesome - M/M/M, Wet & Messy, and I mean messy, just a lil, some mention of fisting, this is a filthy filthy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8154277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Wade wants his hummus double-dipped. Nathan and Peter oblige him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **(As apparently this needs to be said) do tell me if I've missed out tags! I'm a shitty tagger, and while I reserve the right to refuse a tag if I think it'll be detrimental to the fic, I will at least try to compromise!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Y'all wanted porn, and y'all got it. Who else is firmly in the twink!Wade camp? Make me some noise, people!**

Wade Wilson. The sort of name that slithered from your tongue. A sneer. A cuss. A moan.

Add an expletive – _Wade Fucking Wilson_ – and it became the rallying cry of superheroes, supervillains, and frustrated taco vendors worldwide. Cable might have united humanity against him by dredging Providence from the icy Pacific depths, but Wade could enact the same armed only with a megaphone and his remarkable ability to piss off every person he met. 

People like Peter Parker. 

“Go away, Wade,” he grumbled, as the bloody palm scraped down his window and slapped wetly onto the sill. “I have work tomorrow.” 

How Wade had scaled Stark tower, a fortress unclimbable to all but those endowed with sticky spider-powers, was anyone’s guess. The odd blue glow wrapping his forearm might provide some clue. Strangely he didn’t appear to be reflecting the light, or even exuding it. Rather, that bright Mayan hue wound about him like an amorous anaconda, sinuous and serpentine, a thick tendril that fizzled to thin air an inch past Wade’s fingertips. He’d either pissed off an eldritch extra-terrestrial or stolen a prototype flying weapon. Peter ought to unbolt the lock, chew Wade out, and send him on his way having wrangled a promise that said device/Lovecraftian abomination would be returned to where he’d found it. 

Wade’s voice sounded scratchier than ever, filtered through shatter-proof glass. “Day job shmay job. You don’t gotta go to work, work, work that nine-to-five. Now is the time to seize the day.” 

“You’re muddling your showtunes again. And you’re covered in blood.” He didn’t know this for a fact – Wade, foreseeing his fastidiousness, had chosen to linger around the corner of his windowframe. But if Wade’s hands were blood-splattered, he must boast an equally liberal head-to-foot coat. Letting him in meant Peter’s carpet received a similar dousing. As that carpet was high grade fibre-wool, impossibly soft underfoot and the perfect cushioning for when you knelt to fuck a big scarred ex-merc on it, Peter couldn’t be having that. 

Their friends-with-benefits situation began with an accident, as terrible decisions usually did. Peter had been lugging Wade to the Avengers tower for their debrief, struggling to ignore the running commentary (“I’d debrief with Captain America any day, if you get my drift”). It helped that every third word was whipped away by the wind. Peter could concentrate on sensation – the slicing soar of his body through the air, powered through the cityscape by his own momentum; the thrilling ungainliness of his passenger, who threw off his aerodynamics and nearly sent both of them careening between the skyscrapers like a pinball in an arcade game. And, best of all, that same passenger’s muscular body. Wade was tough warm putty, moulded to Peter’s hands. 

Ever-tired of being typecast as a twink, Peter found his ability to haul around guys several times his size scintillating. Throw in Wade’s husky indiscernible jabber, the way he plastered himself to Peter’s lean spine, the nuzzle of his head against the tendon joining Peter’s neck to his wiry shoulder… That tantalizing edge of power became borderline erotic. 

Wade wasn’t much taller than him, or much broader. Size was relative in a world chock-a-block with supers, whose proportions ranged from hulk-like to antish. But muscle coated his limbs, thick and curvaceous. His sturdy thighs felt incredible in Peter’s grip. 

Being a man in his mid-twenties, one automatic thought led to another. And on that morning, as the new sun spilt red wax over the Atlantic, Peter realized that Wade’s legs felt amazing – but they’d feel even better locked around his waist from the front. 

The epiphany hit like a tossed brick. Peter was lucky he didn’t lose his grip on the webbing. It would’ve shocked anyone, especially someone who’d gone to great lengths to distance their public image from Deadpool’s. But despite his aversion to the man’s face (and his diet, smell, aptitude for murder, and general personage) there was no escaping it. 

Peter deemed Wade fuckable. 

When Wade wobbled off his back and tossed out a parting-innuendo (“You hate to see me go but love to watch me leave right?”) Peter had answered with one of his own (“You’re a medical grade ass, Wilson. As the closest thing you have to a doctor, I should probably give that ass a check-up.”) He’d been met with an enthusiastic response (“Only if you promise to look for prostate cancer!”) and they’d gone from there. They never called themselves an item, never acknowledged their relationship as anything other than it was – Peter fulfilling Wade’s need to get fucked; Wade acting as a pliant warm sheathe into which Peter could rut. But while they kept things casual, there was one thing Peter couldn’t deny. 

Wade _liked_ him. 

Admittedly, it was bog-standard hero-worship – superficial, puppyish, the sort of love that wouldn’t stand up to stern testing. Peter doubted Wade would stick around if he showed his darker colours – the side of him that’d punched a pregnant Mary Jane, or gone swinging through the skies in search of fame and fortune while Uncle Ben met his gristly end… Wade was only with him for as long as he believed Peter was perfect. While that hurt, a little, on a higher level Peter was more afraid of the consequences for the rest of the world. Because one day, he would slip. One day, Wade would catch a glimpse of the arrogant boy behind the hero, and all his grand ideals about what it meant to be a ‘good man’ would crumble. 

On that day, Wade Wilson would have to make his own choice about whether he wanted to keep clawing towards redemption. But whatever the answer, Peter was gradually coming to accept that he was only a paving slab along Wade’s path, not its final destination. 

It would take someone with greater introspective abilities than Wade Wilson to suss that out for himself though. Peter was reminded that while ignoring unruly children did wonders for making them behave, such tactics lacked effect on Wilson. Things merely got messier the longer you left him without interaction. 

Case in point: the blood drying on his window. A nice glossy red smear of it, like a passing pigeon had suffered sudden fatal prolapse. 

No, unless he wanted to wake to find the entirety of Stark Tower daubed in sanguine, a vast and cancerous piece of modern art, Peter was going to have to pander to Wade. As usual. Groaning, he unpeeled his face from the pillow. 

“Come in then,” he said, voice crotchety from sleep. 

He had tonight off patrol. Clint and Nat were covering Queen’s. Peter trusted the Avengers with his life, his identity, his everything – but he’d be lying if he denied the noose of nervousness that tightened around his chest whenever another hero took his shift. 

Delegating was necessary. Some Avengers – Vision and Thor – required downtime every fortnight if that. Others – Tony and Clint – subsisted on caffeine and energy drinks, and so kept much the same hours (with the added bonus of occasionally falling asleep mid-conversation). However, Peter was a healthy twenty-five year old. His metabolism let him cram as many doughnuts down his gullet as he pleased while maintaining a lean one hundred and fifty pounds. He drank plenty of water, he brushed his teeth twice a day, and he required eight hours more sleep a night than he got. 

While spider powers made for a great trim gym-worthy bod, they didn’t do shit for Peter’s skin regime. If he skipped naps, he broke out with the acne of a boy ten years his junior. 

It’d be entirely hypocritical of Wade to care. But Peter liked being the attractive one in the relationship. Mary Jane, Gwen, Johnny… They were so far out of his league that Peter’s efforts at wooing them were cringe-worthy in hindsight. At least with Wade, Peter could rest assured the poor sod wasn’t getting fucked by anyone sexier than him on the sly. 

…Or so Peter thought. Wade, contrary as ever, proved him wrong. 

The instant Peter unwebbed the lock, he booted the window open. And Peter realized all his hypotheses about how Wade came to be levitating outside his fiftieth-story window were false. Wade’s flight wasn’t the doing of a tentacular monster from another dimension, or a pilfered piece of Starktech. It was much, much worse. Because there, squeezing through the frame after Wade, came his companion. 

His _big_ companion. His big, silver-haired, square-jawed, disturbingly handsome middle-aged companion, who sported a beard of a thickness Peter’s weedy chin hairs wouldn’t muster if he pruned them topiary-style for a decade. Looking at him made Peter’s mouth pucker. Damn, the man was huge. Pushing seven foot, ripped and masculine. His abdominal muscles pushed against the front of his grubby blue jumpsuit as if they wanted to burst free and go undulating about the Avengers Tower in search of damsels to ravish, like a real-life enactment of Sandra Hill’s _Rough-and-Ready_. 

Besides him, Wade looked almost petite. Knowing Wade, he adored it. 

Pulling himself to sit on his bed, Peter glowered at the pair. He ought to be freaking out about his mask. But he knew Nathan by reputation. Strongest mutant since Phoenix. Telepathy that could parse a mind on the other side of the Earth without its owner noticing, or scourge it until they were driven to lunacy. There were no such things as secrets here. 

Peter’s frown thinned at the thought of all that power, stored in the head of one man. Call him a bigot, but Peter preferred his superheroes to be of the accidental-sort. As in: formed by a gamma radiation blast, or an experimental super-serum, or self-made in an Afghani war bunker. Mutation gave him the heebie-jeebies. 

Yet while a gravimetric blue gloss clung to Cable’s skin, he didn’t look as… _mutated_ , as normal. 

Peter nodded to his outstretched hand. “Where’s the silver bits?” 

Cable’s rugged face became haggard when he tried for a tired smile. He didn’t begrudge Peter the shake, palm hovering a moment before dropping to his side. 

”I’m free of TO-mesh. Free of TK too, unfortunately. All of my powers are artificial; it’s only me and what equipment I could salvage from the Greymalkin.” If there was one thing Peter could appreciate about him, it was that he didn’t bandy about the point. Not like a certain other someone. “I’m here as part of an X-man mission, related to the current whereabouts of my clone. But he hasn’t manifested in several days. My friends on this side of the timeline did not respond to my requests for harbour –“ 

Wade snorted. “ _’Friends’_. You mean Jennifer Aniston, Hope, Nessa, and all those other lovely ladies you haven’t spoken to since you last went gallivanting off to the future? No wonder they’re not returning your calls. And don’t get me started on your pops… You make _Queen Bey_ sound like she doesn’t have issues in that department.” 

Cable had known Deadpool long enough to have mastered the art of tuning him out. “And so,” he said, “Wade suggested that I crash with him. Mentioned Golden Girl marathons and pancakes. I couldn’t resist.” 

“Huh.” None of that was unbelievable. Just infuriating. Peter turned his glare on the true culprit. “So if you’re after pancakes, why did you bring him _here?_ And – wait, if he’s powerless… Well done, Wade; you actually _did_ give away my secret identity. Thanks a lot, you crazy idiot.” 

“Just because I no longer read minds,” said Nathan, cutting Wade off – an ability that made Peter dislike him even more, if only because he’d never grasped it. “That does not infer that I’ve lost all memory of what I discovered within them. You have nothing to fear from me, Mr Parker. I’m just here because Wade promised me a warm drink and a bed.” 

Peter scoffed. “Kinda easy for a soldier form the future, aren’t you?” 

The resultant awkward silence – during which Peter cursed his big mouth and wondered whether pissing off the only other man besides Wolverine to consistently return from so-called ‘permanent’ death and-slash-or powerlessness was such a great idea – broke when Wade spluttered. “You hear that, Summers?” he crowed, capering between them. Flakes of dried blood drifted to the floor like umber snowflakes. Peter could see the hole in his costume, which had heralded the presence of a wound for those ephemeral seconds before it filled with skin and compiled scar tissue. “He called you easy! Well, he’s not wrong. I mean, my name _is_ on top now –“ 

Peter decided he didn’t want to know the story behind that sentence. “Well, if it’s hot drinks you want, I have coffee.” 

“And hot chocolate,” Wade added. He seemed oblivious to Peter’s glare. Didn’t he realize that the hot chocolate was reserved: a special reward after long nights sent pummelling muggers, abusers, shoplifters, and the regular miscellany of Queens’ gutter-scum? Bad enough that Peter had to put up with Summers sharing their space. Taking their cocoa stash piled insult atop of injury. 

Peter was tired, he was groggy. All he wanted was for Nathan to show himself to the door. Then he could convince Wade they needed a brief round in the sack, and fuck him so hard and deep that the man’s usual rambles dissolved into spitty groans. 

But if he kicked Nathan out, who was to say that Wade wouldn’t follow him? 

While this shindig they had going on wasn’t built to last, Peter couldn’t help but want to cling to it a while longer. It was nice, having someone dependent on him for affection – even if that someone was only Wade. 

“Sure,” he muttered. “Knock yourself out.” 

Which was how he wound up here. Sat on Deadpool’s left, while Cable took his right – gingerly, with the air of a man used to clocking three times as heavy on the scales. When the mattress didn’t crush in his direction, depositing the smaller superheroes on his lap, he breathed a sigh of relief and sipped molten marshmallow from the top of his cup. 

Peter sneered at the sticky, sugary concoction. Of course Wade raided their snack supply. Because this was a _special occasion_ – or so he claimed as he tipped his mug to his mouth, remembering at the last second that he still wore his mask. He retilted the cup a moment too late to avoid getting a mallow-moustache. 

“Good huh?” he asked Nathan as he unhooked the mask from his collar. Peter was ignored – except for his use as a spare pair of hands; Wade shoved his mug into his chest, and Peter grabbed it on instinct (thank you spider sense) if only to prevent himself from having to do more laundry. Wade kept talking as he peeled the form-fitting lycra from his bald skull. “Now Petey here’s risen above minimum wage, he doesn’t need me to be his sugar daddy. It’s a shame, really. They grow up so fast…” He wiped an imaginary tear. Barrelled on before Peter could butt in and remind him that he wasn’t actually a kid. And that if anything, _he_ was the daddy, thank you very much. “Now, I don’t know about you Summers, but I’m betting you haven’t had a bath in years. Possibly decades.” 

Nathan would shoot Wade an unimpressed look, if weren’t so busy guzzling his chocolate. He drank in short mechanical sips, slowing to longer, languid pulls as he neared the cup’s bottom. His eyelashes – long white eyelashes, thick as the beard on his face – slivered to a blissed-out half-mast. “I haven’t aged that much since we last met, Wade,” he murmured. 

Wade swatted Nathan’s shoulder and tittered like a schoolgirl. “Oh _you_. Does this mean I have to return the zimmer frame I bought for your birthday? Cause baby, you’re not old, you’re _mature_. Like a fine cheese.” 

Nathan snorted into his drink. Wade relented with a put-upon sigh: “A fine fruitcake? Okay, okay. A fine _wine_. But seriously buddy. Go take a shower. Not to mince my words, but you smell like you’ve been hunting a clone through a tortured apocalyptic landscape where the bathroom plumbing works about as well as Rosie O’Donnell’s thyroid.” Big words, from a man to whom the scents of paprika and putrefaction clung like oil to the surface of the ocean. Wilson was an emulsion of unpleasant aromas. But like hell would Peter point that out. What if Wade decided to go keep Nathan company? 

Wade waited for Cable to finish his drink with uncharacteristic patience – meaning he only fidgeted within the square metre of bed he’d assigned himself, and didn’t add any ‘artistic’ gunshot holes to Peter’s interior décor. He dealt Nathan’s ass – his sculpted, beefy ass; _dammit Peter what’s wrong with you_ – a cracking spank as the man stood. 

If Peter had been on the receiving end, he’d have stamped and shouted. Thrown a tantrum. Webbed Wade to the nearest chair. Nathan just gave Wade a placid and unprovocative blink. And sure enough, whereas Wade would’ve only been egged on by Peter’s display, under Nathan’s stare he crossed his hands behind his back like a naughty schoolchild and gestured to the bathroom with an exaggerated nod. “No touchie. Goddit. Now go on, scoot.” 

Of course Wade listened to _him_. 

Peter passed him his chocolate when he made demanding grabby-motions, watching Nathan’s passage into the bathroom with a shameless leer. The three of them were a broken connection relay: Peter watched Wade, and Wade watched Nathan, but Nathan watched neither of them, focussed only on the future he’d sacrifice anything to protect. 

Up to and including Wade. Which was why it smarted that the merc didn’t hold a grudge. 

On cue, Wade elbowed Peter in the ribs. “Cute tush, amirite?” When that got no response, he nudged harder. For all his beef he couldn’t make Peter budge an inch if he didn’t want to, and right now Peter wasn’t moving for love nor money. He stayed in his defensive hunch, blowing steam in airborn murals. They blotted the sight of Nathan shutting his bathroom door, until he could pretend the man had never been there in the first place. 

Wade, meanwhile, kept barging him. He was not an unstoppable force, despite the effervescent energy bubbling beneath the cracked, sore-strewn surface of his skin; equally, Peter laid no claims to being an immovable object. But it was a close enough metaphor to tempt paradox. Something had to give – that something being Wade’s joints. Peter lost patience as Wade dramatically clutched his dislocated arm, as if it was going to hurt for more than five minutes. 

“Wade,” he said, striving to emulate the take-no-nonsense tone of his rival. “Why is he here? The truth, this time.” 

Wade popped the bone back into the socket, cheery grin restored. “You’re doing your grumpy-pout,” he observed. He bounced to kneel besides him. The reek of old blood on his uniform was almost overpowering, especially when added to the rest of the malaisic Wade Wilson cocktail: infection, blisters, seeping sores. A gloved finger trailed his jaw, hot as a fever victim’s and faintly sticky, as if it had been rootling around a jam jar. “Is widdle spidey feeling neglected?” 

Widdle spidey was. Widdle spidey also did not like to be called ‘widdle spidey’, because he was, as he kept reminding everyone, a grown-ass adult. 

A grown-ass adult who couldn’t tell two other grown-ass adults to get the hell out of his house. 

Their nightly escapades had never broached _relationship_ territory. But that didn’t infer he was okay watching Wade’s long-term partner drink his hot chocolate, massage his shampoo into his soft white hair, maybe even use his bed… 

Peter set his mug down with a harder clunk than necessary. Sudsy marshmallow slopped over the rim. The porcelain chipped where it hit the bedside table – steel, of course, inkeeping with the rest of Stark’s brutal and vaguely futuristic interior design – but thankfully didn’t break. 

“I’m going to scale the tower and clock some hours in the gym,” he said, as Wade drained his own portion and eagerly reached for the leftovers. “Lock the window after me.” He’d crash in Thor’s room after he’d taken out his frustration on the adamantium-reinforced punchbags. For the teammember who spent the least time on earth, their resident Norse God sure liked his cosy furnishings. And Peter could be sneaky – no one but JARVIS needed to know he’d been there. 

Peter just prayed the same would be said of his room come morning. 

*** 

Thus far, Operation Three-Men-In-A-Bed had not gone according to plan. 

“You mean leave Summers here?” Wade called. He hurried after Peter and caught his arm as the soft fwoosh of the tower’s integrated shower system began – apparently it took Nathan five-plus minutes to unstick his suit from his mass of burly muscle. That thought would have Wade salivating, but right now he was more intrigued with how Nathan dealt with toilet emergencies. Not that the man had ever been trussed up in duct tape long enough for his bladder to burn, but _still_ … “You can’t, spidey! What if he walks off with the silverware?” 

”I don’t have any silverware.” 

”But don’t you at least want to say goodbye to him? He’s a lovely guy, once you worm through that _I’m-so-smug-and-I’ve-saved-the-world-more-times-than-you-have_ exterior.” 

Peter made a disparaging noise in the back of his throat. Poor guy must be jealous. Wade didn’t blame him – Nathan had that effect on people. 

But just because Nathan was _better_ didn’t mean Wade wanted to settle down and live a one-man life. At least, not until he’d gotten this idea out of his system: the idea Summers had explicitly encouraged from the first time Wade spat it out mid-orgasm. 

All Wade needed was another guy willing to dip their dick in the cancerous pond. Who better than his lil’ arachnid buddy? 

“C’mon,” he wheedled, eyes as puppyish as they could get when they were deepset in whorls of crinkled scar tissue. “Stay a while. You, me, and Summers. We could have hijinks, Petey. _Hijinks_. Maybe even whacky ones!” 

Peter shouldered him off. “Let the man enjoy his shower,” he said. 

He had a point. Wade couldn’t have picked a better place to bring Nathan for a scrubdown. Tony Stark’s signature swank extended into the bathrooms he designed; Nathan must be getting the full spa experience. Even if Steve, occupant of the floor above, ran his tap at full blast while brushing his teeth, flushed the loo several times, and jumped up and down on the pipes for good measure, the hot misty spruce of water from the showerhead wouldn’t run cold. 

_Hmm,_ scrolled across the nearest box. _Steve jumping up and down in his shower. All wet and nude and nubile. Especially for a ninety-year old._

“First, he should be Nate’s workout bud,” Wade muttered, as Peter shot him a perplexed side-eye. “Get my old man’s buns nice and steely again. Y’know, as steely as they can get without actually being made of metal. Mm. Cable’s metal buns. An abundance of buns…” 

_Second,_ the box prompted. Wade steered his digression back on track. 

“Second, if baby-boy isn’t game, we should totally ask whether cap’s up for nookie instead!” 

Peter froze on the spot, one pace away from flinging himself into the fuzzy black fug of the New York night. “What did you say?” 

Ah. Wade should’ve known – Petey just required convincing. Smirking, he propped a hand on his hip and affected a sassy jut that made the plump swells of his buttocks strain at the skintight fabric. He knew the ploy was effective. Peter wasn’t actively searching for a receptacle to throw up in: the usual response preceding a rejection. Upping the ante, Wade planted a pat on his posterior. 

“This shit wants bananas, spidey! B, A-N-A-N-A-S! _Plural_.” A pause. Wade supposed he ought to elaborate. “Not that the old man couldn’t satisfy me, of course. Believe me, this is prime-time for an impotence joke, so if I was gonna make one I would have. But while it rises to the occasion, T.O. mesh or otherwise, I wanna try something new. Something harder, better, faster, stronger… And as my attempts at seducing the Hulk have tragically been for nought – he just doesn’t appreciate a girl’s legs when they’re blown off and thrust in his face; dunno what’s wrong with the guy – this is the next best thing.” And with that, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Peter’s reply. 

Peter blinked. “Why are you misquoting Gwen Stefani at me?” 

How much clearer could he be? Wade flung his hands into the air. Bloody peel crisped from his costume, smattering Peter’s carpet; Peter winced as Wade began to pace, crunching the dusty residue irrevocably into the white fronds. “I want a two-for-one! I want more toads in my hole! _Duo_ pigs in this scarred-and-sexy blanket! I want my hummus double-dipped, dammit!” 

“You’re still not making sense.” 

“I want,” said Wade, as the bathroom door cracked open and a broad towel-clad figure appeared, wreathed in steam and having to duck to avoid smacking his forehead on the doorframe, “the both of you to chimi my changas. Hard, repeatedly, and together. Capice?” 

And Peter, face the colour of a ripe plum, nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **There's no infidelity going on, just so you know - all three are comfortably open in their relationships. But Cable and Wade are much more romantic than Peter and Wade, so you'll be seeing some of that clash in the next chapter! I just want two dicks up Wade's hoohah, and as some odd folks love spudman I figure this is a good way to go about it.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **It's tagged 'explicit' and 'bloodplay' for a reason, folks. Double-penetration ain't squeaky-clean, especially when done hastily.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Literally just porn. Enjoy.**

“Logistics,” was the first thing Nathan said. He nodded to himself, looking despicably self-satisfied for a guy whose sole protection from immodesty was a small hotel-ish towel with _STARK_ monographed on it in capital letters. Wade didn’t blame him. He’d be as smug as Nate if he had abs that crisp at fifty. Not that he would ever physically make it past the grand old age of thirty-mumble, but still.

 _Stupid healing factor; why couldn’t you have kicked in when we still looked like the pretty twink we are inside?_

“You may be flexible, Wade,” Nathan continued, “but both of us have enhanced strength. The last thing we want is to accidentally dislocate your hips.” 

Speak for himself. Spidey might disagree. Wade almost cooed at the sight of them: a massive ex-cyborg whose hair brushed the ceiling and a scrawny, gangly boy, eyes thinned to livid slits (the effectiveness of his death glare was somewhat dulled by his bottle-bottom glasses). They stood side by side, albeit with a solid two meters of distance between them. That space was chilled, positively frosty. Yet despite the rivalry there, and the endless list of antitheses between their heights, builds, and the colour of their pubes (Wade could attest that the carpets matched the drapes), Nathan and Peter shared a few parallels. 

For one, their strength. Peter would snap Wade like a twig if he weren’t such a goody-two-shoes. Nathan, also a goody-two-shoes (but one who bore the whiff of a nineties antihero: gunsmoke and shoulderpads and pouches galore) was usually more amenable to a session of nice rough buggery. Sometimes, he fucked him so hard that the bruises lingered on Wade’s skin for a delectable five minutes. 

The thought was enough to get Wade bobbing at half-mast. He spread his legs and craned forwards over himself, peering at the just-visible crux of his buttocks. 

“Okay,” he began hesitantly. “I think I’ve seen this shit in porn. Or was it one of them yaoi-comics, where prep doesn’t exist and everyone has really big hands? Uh, I mean yow-ee. Yuh-oi. However you say it. Whatever. As I can’t remember the particulars, how about y’all just lube on up and come on in? Don’t be shy now – back door might be shut, but you boys have the key. And, as A.J. McLean said, _I want it that way._ ” 

Peter’s traffic-light red cheeks drained. “You mean you haven’t like… researched this? I dunno – isn’t this dangerous?” 

Wade shot him a cheeky grin. “Dangerous-shmangerous! I live on the edge. Anyway, Nathan’s wedged that big metal fist of his up my hoo-ha more than once, and I’m still regular.” Peter’s returning blush informed him that that was either the wrong thing to say or the absolute right one. Smirking, Wade dipped one scar-cracked eyelid in a saucy wink. “Hey, just cause you like the missionary position doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t experiment.” 

Peter tried to deny that he was boring in the bedroom. It was sad but true; while the addition of webs almost made up for his lack of telekinesis-slash-gravimetric-substitutes, he boasted far less in-sack experience than Wade’s favourite kahuna. 

Letting him splutter in peace, Wade turned his attention onto said kahuna, pushing onto his elbows with his shins poking over the bedside. “So, Mr. Logistics? Or should I call you Spock? You got a plan for how we’re gonna dip two quills in my inkwell, or do I gotta call Bones and ask for a step-by-step? As Banner is Bones in this scenario, that might not end so well.” 

Nathan’s brows formed cute little arches, which meant he regretted ever agreeing to this. Wuss. “These euphemisms are getting ridiculous,” he said. “Have you ever even used an inkwell?” 

“I’ll euphem _your_ ism, buddy! And yeah – I smashed one over Doom’s head at the Villains’ Christmas get-together. I mean, if that asshole has the _audacity_ to be scribbling away while we’re all playing spin-the-bottle, he should at least do it via text. Call himself a Millennial? Victor von Gloom doesn’t even know the proper use and placement of the poop emoji –“ 

Nathan’s laugh erupted from his nostrils more than his throat, a brief snort that always sounded as if it took him by surprise. Wade loved it. He wanted to hear that sound again and again and again. Failing that? Other sounds – longer, lower, _huskier_ sounds, all vowel and growl and yip – would have to suffice. 

Grabbing Nathan’s face between his blood-crusted palms, he pulled him up his body to kiss. Nate rose between his legs like a sturdy shipmast. His lips met Wade’s without hesitation, nose rubbing the baby-soft scar tissue on his cheekbone. 

“There’s a poop emoji?” he whispered, breath misting the sensitive ridges above Wade’s upper lip. His beard hair tickled like a cat’s bristling whiskers. 

_His beard would feel amazing between our legs. Y’know, where we’re most sensitive. Imagine it scratching and scraping on all those soft, supple little scars, nuzzling us open…_

That little yellow box was a veritable font of wisdom; Wade had no idea what he’d do without it. Grabbing a fistful of beard, he begun to guide Nate in the opposite direction once more. Amused, Nathan submitted to being led – and oh, how Wade adored it: that blocky body kneeling at the bedside, towel slipping forgotten to the floor, a naked acolyte worshipping his deathgod in all his imperfections… 

Huh. That was hot. He’d have to convince Nathan to wear a monk’s habit next time they did the diddly-do. Bring back all that fun One-World Church nonsense. People living in peace and harmony? Pah! Then what’d Wade do for a job? 

Wade’s head thumped the sheets as Nathan mouthed his bulge. His erection stuffed his cup. The wet head peeked coquettishly from the top – Nathan located it with the ease of many years’ practice, snuffling through the spandex, and treated it to a filthy Frenching. 

His spittle soaked the material. The heat was as incredible as it was stifling; Wade dropped one arm over his face, jaw dropping as his fingers engulfed themselves in Nathan’s hair. Crispy blood speckled the white-grey, salt-and-pepper seen through a crimson filter. And constantly, maddeningly, never letting up, was the scritch of that infernal beard. 

“Fuck,” Wade hissed, grinding on his face. “This is like a Rise of the Guardians fanfic gone incredibly _right_.” Nathan manipulated the cup out the way, stretching the fabric so he could pull it away from his prize, as Wade’s gabble hitched in his throat. “Y-you be Santa, I’ll be – ah, I’ll be the Easter Bunny. I do a real neat Wolverine impression –“ 

“I,” breathed Nathan, steering the thick shape to his mouth, “have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

That didn’t stop him from sucking up the sides of Wade’s costume-clad cock, compensating for his inability to devour it properly with featherish caresses of his incisors and – oh! – the occasional cheeky nip. “Shrimps on the Barbie, Nate!” 

Nate made that cute snort again. His fingers kneaded the backs of Wade’s legs, swooping under curved thighs and gripping his buttocks. 

“We best get you ready,” he said. 

_We._ Oh yeah. This wasn’t just about the two of them. Wade forced himself to look past Nathan’s head – difficult, given its proximity to his second-favourite erogenous zone. He focussed on the slim young hero by the window. Spidey still looked tempted to bolt. He’d snatched his mask when he first threatened to head for the gym, and he now twisted that flaccid swath of fabric over and over in his hands, as he watched his two soon-to-be-bedmates writhe against each other. 

Sure, Deadpool and Spiderman didn’t have a thing. At least, not a _thing_ -thing. Wade only let matters progress because he was lonely; plus the kid was cute when he tried to be suave, and Nathan, with an openness borne of being raised in a far-future world where terms such as _monogamy_ and _sexuality_ were meaningless, had no qualms about booty-calling Dom when Wade wasn’t in town. But as nice as it’d be to swap Peter out for a boobilicious beast of a man like Cap, not even Wade’s overactive imagination could picture the blonde superhero consenting to fucking a degenerate who looked like a zombie extra off The Walking Dead. Especially not if a mutant was involved. After the Virus fiasco, Wade very much doubted that Cap would want anything to do with him or Nate, ever again. 

His loss. 

However, that did infer that this right here was his only chance at having his fancy tickled. Wade wasn’t about to lose it over a little thing like _logistics_. 

Swatting Nathan’s face from his groin, Wade crab-crawled rearwards over the bed. His gloved fingers located the zipper under his collar, and he hulled his costume from him like the dry outer shell of a sunflower seed. What emerged was considerably less appetizing, to folks with conventional tastes. Luckily, Wade knew Peter’s and Nate’s were anything but. 

“C’mon,” he said, dropping the sweat-blood-and-worse smeared spandex to the floor. He struck a pose. What exactly this pose was, words faltered at describing. “Are your hotdogs ready to handle my buns?” 

“Oh god,” said Peter, faintly. “We’re actually doing this.” Wade blinked at him – the boy looked like he needed smelling salts wafted under his nose. 

_Our pouches may be Mary Poppin-esque, but I’m afraid we’re fresh out._

“Maybe we should ask Nate? He must have another couple of pouches tucked away somewhere on that big naked bod – thank Liefeld.” 

“Ask me what?” 

_Nah, let’s just use our socks._ Decision made, Wade hooked the offending garments off his feet – boy, did they offend. He lobbed them at Spiderman’s face. It was only his lightning-reflexes that saved Peter from a ball of wadded cotton and toe-gunk slapping him about the cheeks. 

“Wade! What the heck?” A back-take. “Why do you even wear socks?” 

“Not all of us have a full-body onesie, Pete,” answered Wade primly. “And I’ll have you know that my boots chafe.” 

“Wade,” said Nathan, with a long-suffering air. “You cram your feet into high heels two sizes too small without complaint.” 

Well, he couldn’t deny that. In lieu of answering, Wade settled for hauling Nathan crossways onto the bed and straddling him. Nathan made another of his fun noises as he tumbled onto rumpled sheets, hair a tousled halo – this a surprised but pleased hum. Wade had no choice but to devour it. Nathan’s towel, long-forgotten, was kicked over to Spidey by an errant foot as the two ground against each other. 

Peter looked displeased at being named unofficial laundry boy, but even more loath to leave anything on his precious carpet that had touched Nathan’s bare flesh. Flesh he couldn’t stop peeping at. Soft white hair, stern bone structure, long planes of muscle that’d make one of McDonald’s ‘100% pure beef burgers’ hang its head in shame… Wade didn’t blame him. Nathan was a lion of a man, all power and heft and fuzz. Perching on his belly, he stooped to nuzzle the curls on his chest, still damp from the shower. Then reached behind him and gathered a thick handful of cock. 

“Hung like a lion too,” he panted, angling his hips so his own precum-slicked prick leaked across Nathan’s treasure trail. “Wait. Do lions have big cocks? And are they spiky like a cat’s?” 

“How do you know what a cat’s penis looks like?” Nathan asked. 

“You mean you’ve never looked at Shen Kuei and wondered…?” Nathan’s amused incredulity indicated a negative. Wade hastened to vindicate himself. “Hey, it’s the digital age! All that information at my fingertips! What was I supposed to do – ask him myself, or commemorate it to my internet history?” 

Nathan’s broad palm fastened over the back of his head, tugging him in for another kiss. “Next time, we’ll invite him to be our third,” he promised. “That way, we can find out for ourselves.” 

Wade sighed; pure bliss. “He’s so totally Fonzie.” 

”I don’t know what that means either.” 

The inanity of the conversation didn’t have adverse effect on the erection filling out Wade’s hands. Nathan looked perfect beneath him: mouth a bruised upwards curve, shimmery with spit, pupils swallowing the entire iris. That gave Wade pause. Because how odd was it, to be able to focus on both eyes at once, rather than have your gaze slip from the blank blue orb on the right without any irregularity or pupil to latch onto? 

Wade sat upright, smoothing over muscle-swollen pectorals. His asscheeks split neatly, one to each side of that mammoth, perfect cock, and he appraised Nathan from afar. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said. Nathan stroked a tender thumb along the scars highlighting Wade’s sharp jaw. 

“I could say the same for you.” 

Call him a flatterer, call him a liar, call him an earnest and sentimental idiot. Wade would call Nathan a thousand names and more, if he would only enter him _stat_. 

“Lube,” he snapped at Peter, who had hermetically sealed Wade’s socks with webbing for the duration of the short trek to the linen basket. When he pointed to the bedside cabinet – of course, the kid had fucked Wade enough that Wade ought to remember where he stashed the stuff – Wade extracted himself from Nate’s embrace long enough to rummage through the drawers and retrieve it. Spidey made a disgruntled noise as various medkit supplies went tumbling, tossed indiscriminately by Wade’s clumsy-eager hands. Suture needles, sterile thread, an entire pack of butterfly bandages. Life was tough for those who couldn’t pop their lungs back into shape in the time it took to stuff their spilled viscera back into their gut cavity. 

But while Wade envied Peter his good looks – and his reputation, and his friendship circles, and how he seemed to be forgiven every wrongdoing while Wade’s follies were chipped into stone and immortalized in the eyes of every Avenger from Ant-Man to the Zodiac team – Spiderman wasn’t the focus of his attention. 

He snatched the half-squeezed tube of lube. Then, after consideration, another full one besides. He could heal, but even the most eager partners would feel remorse after having their prides and joys abraded by ten inches of scarred colon. Squeezing a fat dollop, Wade entwined his fingers with Nathan’s, glazing both sets. Then slathered it along the big guy’s cock for good measure. 

Nate was all symmetrical lines and harsh angles, so hench that his biceps looked ready to burst from their skin coating. But when Wade touched his prick, fingertips tracing whorls onto bunching red flesh, he melted putty-esque, malleable to Wade’s ministrations. 

“Wade,” he moaned. Wade, toying with Nate’s foreskin, smeared a cool glob of lube onto the sensitive head. He had to clamp his thighs tight to Nathan’s waist as he bucked. “ _Wade._ ” 

“Say my name, say my name! If no one is around you, say baby I love you…” 

Nathan gripped Wade’s hips, squeezing until the bones creaked. His sticky digits crept underneath him, filling that humid space between their bodies, which was already clammy with sweat. His first probe bumped Wade’s perineum. Hard. A bolt of electricity crackled through his pelvis, culminating at the base of his bouncing cock. “Ugh… Nate, stick them fingers in me before I chop ‘em off and do it for you…” 

“You always make the best bedroom conversation,” muttered Spidey from his rear. Quite literally his rear. Another pair of hands – notably smaller and slimmer, but no less strong – fastened over his obliques. They hefted Wade with ease, levitating him above Nathan’s pronging fingers. 

Nathan tipped Spidey a nod, one man to another. He dabbled as much lube around Wade’s rim as he could, while Wade hissed and swore and wriggled in impatience. Eventually, the downwards pressure exerted by Peter became too much; Nathan was forced to either impale Wade or forfeit his knuckle joints. 

“His dirty-talk could use some work, couldn’t it?” he said, conversationally. “The last time I fucked him, he wouldn’t stop calling me Bea Arthur.” 

Peter switched his grip, cupping Wade under his ass. “He always says your name when he comes, regardless of who he’s sleeping with. So I guess you’re a peg above me.” 

Wade didn’t have the coherence to correct him that while he liked Petey well enough, Nathan was a peg above _everyone_. Not when Peter squeezed each supple buttock, nails pinching the flesh. He handled his asscheeks with the familiarity of one who’d frequently had cock, fingers, and face buried between them, stretching them far apart so his rim squeezed Nathan’s knuckles. The prone mutant winced as his tendons protested. Laughing breathlessly, Wade squirmed around the digits like a butterfly on a pin. 

“Careful, Spidey. Big boy here doesn’t have metal bits anymore – he’s gone all Bicentennial Man. You don’t want to break him.” An exhale, shaped harsh and hot over the scarred topography of Wade’s shoulder, insinuated otherwise. But Peter eased off, letting Nathan control the pace as he dabbled three fingers into Wade, then four. 

The intrusion was wonderful; so welcome it felt barely foreign at all, as if Nathan’s hand and arm were a natural extension to his body. But Wade had never been the most easily satisfied. He was greedy by nature; now that he’d acclimatized, he yearned for more. He shimmied off the fingers, ass clenching over nothing in its hunger to be filled. 

“What’s the time Mr Wolf?” he singsonged, fondling Nate’s girthy prick. The slide of skin over blood-engorged muscle was almost as exhilarating as imagining it inside him. “That’s right; time for cock! Buy one get one free (customer experience may vary, and Wadepool Incorporated is not liable for any injuries caused through misuse of the product).” 

Peter shoved him forwards, forcing Wade’s spine to arch and winning himself a clear view of his pucker. ‘Pucker’ was the wrong word. Right now it was a shiny bud, slick with lubricant, flowering out of itself in a puffy and sensitive rosette. When he inserted his index, it gripped him weakly. Wade made a sound like a tortured jet engine. His anal muscles were plump and soft, velvety-wet as a woman’s puss. But even after the forceful fingering, he was beginning to tighten. 

“We need to hurry,” Peter said. Nathan’s nod was brisk and businesslike. As Wade hissed and writhed, popping his vertebrae out of alignment in his quest to have Peter filling his ass with something more satisfying than one knobbly digit, he reached between them to steady his cock. Moving swift, Peter tugged his finger free and propped index and middle, one on each side of Wade’s puffy red hole. He flexed him open until he engulfed Nathan’s cockhead. A string of drool slivered down Wade’s chin, plopping onto Nathan’s chest, as Wade’s jaw slackened from its constant yapping motion. He moaned, shamelessly loud. Then again when Peter dealt him a spank. “Shut up, idiot. You want Cap and Tony to come bursting in here?” 

Wade’s eager nod made them both snort. Peter met Nathan’s eyes, surprised by the synchronized sound. Nathan cracked a grin, one which Peter couldn’t help but emulate. 

“I think,” he said, steadying Wade a millimeter away from impalement, “that he’s ready.” 

And ready or not, here they came. Wade groaned as the first cock glided past his slippery rim. Nathan was spongey-hard and pulsing. Broad enough to ache, long enough to bury himself bowel-ticklingly deep in Wade’s rectum. He worked himself inside inch by inch, thrust by thrust. Too boneless bear down and help the inwards passage, Wade could only gurgle spit as Peter and Nathan put their combined strength to use, easing him gently full. 

He wound up sat straight, feeling as if his spine had been fortified with adamantium. Nathan bounced him on his lap, lewd squelches accompanying each grind. At Wade’s back, Peter reached around him to grope his belly, massaging the textured, tortured skin. All three of them groaned when Peter’s deft fingers discovered Nate’s cockhead, buried so deep inside Wade that it bulged out his abdomen. 

“Jesus Christ motorboating Mother Mary! Vladimir Putin on a pogo stick wearing – wearing fishnet stockings!” In that moment, Wade could’ve been forgiven for thinking that life couldn’t get any better. 

Then, Peter crawled onto the bed behind Wade, stripping his boxers in economic movements. He set his glasses on the bedside table. The faint _chink_ made Wade squirm. The resultant wring of his ass around Nathan must have been exquisite – the man growled and surged into a bridge, shifting Wade with him like the rider on a Bucking Bronco. Wade’s bare feet stirred helplessly at the mattress. “Oh God, Nate, Nate, _Nate-Nate-Nate_ …” 

The press of a second head to his straining hole made Wade swear louder still. “Oh hell! Oh %&^$!” 

The second dick froze on the cusp of penetration. So did the other, which was wetly stirring Wade’s innards. Much to Wade’s displeasure. 

“What did you say?” 

“Sorry,” Wade panted, circling on the cock in an effort to get it moving again. “I forget not everyone speaks censor.” 

Speak censor they might not, but both Peter and Nathan were thoroughly fluent in Deadpool. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

He didn’t know which of them said it – maybe they both did. Right then, all that mattered was the promise of the stretch. 

He sat perched on the very tip of Peter’s meat, which dented his rim inwards like a train trying to force itself through a too-tight tunnel. “Go on,” Wade gasped. “I can take it. Tear me, hurt me. Rip my head off and suck my guts out, froob-style –“ 

A hand covered his mouth. Its twin stroked Wade’s lower back, encouraging him to unclamp the overtensed muscles that wrung Nathan’s dick like a mangle. “Maybe later,” Nathan said. 

A brief lull in pressure. Wade whined at the loss, stifled as it was by Nathan’s palm. But he couldn’t complain for long – there followed a promising crinkle of compressed plastic and a squelch. A cold slick blob of lube smoothed over Nathan’s cockbase and the trembling hole around it. When Peter’s finger entered alongside, questing out each fluttering internal ridge, Wade worried the ball of Nathan’s thumb, accustomed to gagging himself on metal. Nathan winced when incisors punctured skin, but he didn’t shove him away – and when Wade tasted the hot copper of blood, he forced his jaws to relax, bearing Peter’s penetrating, stirring digits with dignity. 

Nathan began thrusting again, skidding past Peter’s knuckle. He started slow, but the tempo steadily increased until the squelches and slaps of lube-slicked flesh sounded as rapidly as Wade’s frenzied heartbeat. His inner thighs felt as if they’d been weathered away by Nathan’s wiry pubic hair. Wade dug at his chest fuzz – _Give ‘em something strong to hold onto_ , sang Amanda Palmer in his head – and clung like a bushbaby as his lower body was heaved up and down Nathan’s shaft. 

Then the additional fingers retreated. They walked up Wade’s spine to the nape of his neck. Wade knew, logically, that they were the same fingers that had stuffed his channel: still wet and warm, trailing sweet-smelling lube around the scarred divots of his spine. But in Wade’s mind, Peter and Nathan had fragmented. He was adrift in an ocean of pure sensation. The bunched quadriceps that fucked him into the air, hard enough to bounce Wade halfway up Nate’s cock? They were disconnected from the palm over his mouth, which his lips brushed at the zenith of each thrust. In turn, that palm bore no relation to the dick in his belly, and that dick was a separate entity entirely to the hand on his neck, which eased him into a low bow over Nathan’s chest, making his hole slurp loose around his cockroot. 

And the second cock? Wade was so well-fucked he couldn’t remember who that belonged to at all. 

“More,” he breathed, the word a shaped exhalation across Nathan’s loveline. And more they delivered. 

They slid in wetly, one after the other. There was a moment on each withdraw, shorter than the most infinitesimal held breath, where they would almost be forced out entirely. But when that occurred Nathan would reach between them to adjust Peter’s aim, and Peter would return the favour, both ensuring that their cocks fed into Wade neat and hard. 

‘Hard’ being an understatement. 

Wade, not the smallest of guys, relished being manhandled in the bedroom. Nathan and Peter’s furious piston-like rhythm, which had Wade jiggling about like a wind-up doll and moaning his pleasure to the ceiling light, was everything he could’ve ever wished. His mouth lolled open, eyes clamped shut. If he’d had lashes there’d be moisture clinging to the ends. But in their absence the concoction of sweat and tears streaked his cheeks, gathering in the crinkles between scars and making raw sores sting as if they’d been salted. 

Dead skin rubbed off in rubbery tatters. Wade’s newgrown flesh shredded like tissue paper, before it aged through its life cycle and was replaced by a fresh raw patch. This relentless assault gave no time for it to harden, no relief inside or out. If Wade could focus on anything other than the endless thump of cocks through his sphincter he’d probably be embarrassed about the amount of blood that coated his sides. His flanks were thoroughly abraded by the paw of sweaty, calloused hands. 

More blood dribbled from his hole, this sudsy and lube-tinted, gushing whenever a shaft withdrew. Nathan and Peter must be regretting diving in bareback right about now. But hey. Sex with him was always a messy affair. The boys oughta be glad he hadn’t stopped off for a Mexican before letting them go all green-light on his ass. 

“Thassit,” he slurred, pushing Nathan’s hand from his face. “S’like… S’like the riveting climax of a Chuck Tingle novel, don’t ya think? _Pounded in the Butt by My Own Butt_ – or rather, _Pounded in the Butt by My Time-Travelling Hubbie and the Guy off My Packed Lunch Box from High School._ Speaking of, how old even _are_ you, Spidey? I mean, I get that fanfic’s outside of continuity, but don’t tell me it’s not creepy as fuck when folks draw you like you’re, I dunno, fifteen –“ 

Peter forced his head down, bending him back over Nathan. Wade, taking the opportunity to drown out his next diatribe – something about him being a fine upstanding wife who’d never switch up to a younger model – kissed him like he was feeding air to a drowning man. He distributed a stripe of slobber across Nathan’s nose in his eagerness. Nathan chuckled, somewhat breathless – Peter had upped his pace and Nate’s face was red from the effort of keeping up. 

“Together?” he asked, over Wade’s heaving shoulder. 

A grim nod. Wade could tell from the way Peter’s shadow bobbed and shifted, falling over him and Nathan like an oil spill. Before he could share this metaphor – and entice them into some Sigourney-Weaver-saving-baby-seals roleplay – both throbbing pricks evacuated. 

Wade whimpered. He felt gouged open, empty, raw. Liable to melt without the comforting weight of a cock in his core. Then he gasped. Then whined. Then _screamed,_ as Nathan and Peter lined up together, their blunt arrow-shaped cockheads a battering ram that stuffed Wade fuller than he’d ever been. 

Lube gathered in a shiny ring around the edge of his hole, squeezed out of him by the weight of his partners’ dicks. “I-Incoming!” Wade stuttered. “Birdie at six o’clock, prepare to take heavy damage…” Nathan instinctively checked the window for a missile. Wade opened his eyes for the duration of time it took for him to locate his cheek and slap it, sweat flying from prickly beard hair. “Doofus. _My_ six. As in, my…” 

Before he could finish that sentence, the pressure on his prostate went from crushing to steamrolling, and – wow! There were two cocks pronging him upright, aiming for the back of his throat. Wade rolled around them, scarcely daring believe they’d fit, and gargled something that might have been a fervent invocation of the Golden Girls. 

“See,” said Nathan, who was somehow still capable of talking. “Bea Arthur. I told you so.” 

Then Peter angled forwards, climbing Wade in a reverse of their usual piggyback. His cock yanked at Wade’s overstrained rim. He piledrove down, squatting into his body – brutal thrusts that wrenched the breath from all three of them. When Wade came he did it with a whimper of “Nate.” 

“And there’s your name,” gritted Peter, hips snapping in search of his own completion. “Like I told _you_.” 

Spurts milked from Wade’s limpening cock as Peter pounded his prostate. Nathan beat out a slower, deeper rhythm, no less intoxicating; he pierced Wade to the core, filling his head with jelly and his limbs with mush. Wade felt drunk. High off his head. As if he’d died and ascended to Nirvana – along with every other sensation that was beyond his forever-regenerating body. He’d never known satiation like this before. 

But all good things must come to an end. Wade’s heavy-lidded gaze swam to the man he rode, as the pleasure started to shift into oversensitized agony. He must look a pathetic sight. Mouth slack and drooling, chest flecked with cum and flanks drenched in blood from where their hands had rubbed away the delicate topsoil of his constantly healing scabs. He reached for Nathan like a lost child. 

Nathan evidently didn’t begrudge him it. He cradled Wade against his heartbeat, letting him wipe his running nose between his pectorals while Peter pounded his ass. Which yeah, _gross_. But they were all gonna need a bath after this anyway. Another one, in Nathan’s case. 

“Ridin’ on my surfbort,” murmured Wade into his collarbones. “Surfbort. Surfbort.” His pants broke over Nate’s sternum. Even lost as he was to the rhythm of the fuck, he relished the shiver that travelled the entire length of the Nathan’s body. Mostly because it culminated in his dick. It was still sandwiched to Peter’s inside of him: two veined rods whose twitches made Wade tremble like he was being electrocuted. Not in a good way. “Y-you better hurry it up, Nate. Can’t take much more. You don’t want me t’go all ‘Lemonade’ on you. I might have Daddy Issues but I suck at building Sandcastles.” 

Nathan didn’t reply. Apparently, not everyone was as adept as he was at mid-fuck pop culture references. But his grunts increased in volume and frequency. So did Peter’s. The duple-dicking upped its ante, and the crude slap of skin on skin echoed from the walls. Wade’s asshole distended, stretching along their meat then bulging obscenely when Peter and Nathan rammed in. Each squelching thrust sent blood and lube squirting down the backs of his thighs. As they fucked him harder and harder, Wade clutched Nathan’s chest and clamped his knees tight around the man’s muscular waist in an effort not to be drilled forwards. 

“G-Guys,” he choked, as another push at his overabused prostate made cum seep from his cock, smearing Nathan’s belly. Lights splintered behind his eyelids, synapses firing blank. “Guys, please, enough of the pissing contest. Although – oh God, please don’t piss. Just cum. Cum in me. Please, please, _please_ –“ 

And three pumps later, they did. 

*** 

Nathan hooked his towel off the floor, arranging it under Wade with a sheepish glance at Peter’s coverlets. Wade didn’t understand why. They’d already wrecked the bed. It’d take more than a dry clean to get these sheets sleepable in, smeared as they were with blood and slick and human essence. 

“My santorum ain’t gonna be running for president any time soon, huh?” Nathan’s laugh-huff rocked him, as he curled in the big guy’s lap. He must’ve done a quick browse of the infonet and found himself a definition on urbandictionary; the lucky sod had been gallivanting about in the far-off future for the duration of that hellish election. 

_Not that this one’s looking any better._

“Shut up, brain. I loved that episode of the Simpsons.” 

Peter was surveying the wreckage of his duvet with a mix of awe and disgust, but right now the only person Wade cared about was the one wiping the leakage from his thighs. “As much as you love me?” Nathan asked softly, as he scrunched the towel into a ball and mopped between Wade’s legs. Wade twitched when the rough-woven edge dipped inside him. 

“Guess I’m only the figurative cum-rag,” he said, snuggling over Nathan like a warm stinky blanket. His channel was already tightening, and the outfurled hole began to retuck, sucking at the towel and threatening to drag it inside. Wade headbutted Nate on the shoulder – lightly, by his standards. “Pull it out already, would you? That’s one A&E trip I could do without. _‘Doctor, Doctor, I can’t make my wife orgasm! Should I get a hunky beefcake to fan her with a towel, or just cut out the middle man and shove the thing up her ass?’_ ” 

Nathan obediently relieved Wade of his tail. But his lips fastened in a tight and grumpy line, one that refused to part, no matter the angle to which Wade slanted his own over them. 

_He’s probably waiting for you to answer his question_ , prompted a box. 

”What questi – oh. Oh yeah.” 

The ‘L-word’. Not something to be bandied lightly. In Wade’s experience, saying you loved someone was an invitation for the Marvel writers to turn your girlfriend into a gorilla and have their pet kitty butcher her. Damn, he hated Sabertooth. And… and why was he thinking about Sabertooth, when his attention should only be on the man beneath him? 

Wrangling Wade’s mental process into a single focal point took considerable effort. But he managed it, and for an entire six seconds after he opened his eyes and saw Nathan’s quizzical stare at point-blank range, he managed to concentrate on him and him alone. 

“This is a fanfic,” he whispered. Nathan’s whiskers tickled his chin as he shakily inhaled. “And that means the Marvel writers can’t ruin this. And _that_ means I can say it out loud.” 

Even with telepathy, Nathan had struggled to get a grip on Wade’s dish-soap brain. Now he had no hope. He squinted, puzzling together half seen jigsaw pieces. “Say what?” 

“That I love you, doofus.” 

It went without saying that the next time their mouths met, Nathan kissed back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Leave me comments! I thrive off that shit.**
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> **A note: this was written and edited over two frenzied days. Any mistakes, I'm sorry for, but I'm concentrating on too many WIPs to go back and correct every nitty-gritty thing. :)**
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**Author's Note:**

> **Leave me comments! You can leave me hate if you want, but I'll only thank you for boosting my comment stats. x**


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